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littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/andtliusliecameclirOObradiala 


By  Cyrus  Totvnsend  Brady 


And  Thus  He  Came 
The  More  Excellent  Way 


"  Noy  No,"  said  the  woman, 
"  /  can't  go  with  you  now.'* 


Bxxb  Zhm  1De  Came 

H  CbriBtmas  ifantas^ 


pictures  &s 
TlClalter  1>.  Bverett 


6.  p.  Putnam's  Sona 

l^ew  l^orft  an&  Xon&on 

ITbe    fmicfterbocftec     pce&s 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,  IMS,  BY 
THB   PICTORIAL   REVIEW 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
CYRUS    TOWNSEND   BRADY 


ICbe  ftnfcltcrbocfcer  press,  Hew  Eork 


ITo  tbc  JBeloveO  /RemotB 
of 

Xfttle  ISetti? 


2229448 


Contend 


I. 

— The  Baby 

I 

II.- 

—The  Child 

9 

III.- 

—The  Friend 

17 

IV.- 

—The  Workman  . 

.       31 

V.- 

—The  Comforter 

41 

VI.- 

—The  Burden  Bearer 

49 

VII.- 

—The  Thorn  Crowned 

55 

niL- 

—The  Broken -Hearted 

63 

IX.- 

—The  Forgiver  of  Sins 

73 

X.- 

—The  Giver  of  Life  . 

83 

XI.- 

—The  Stttt.er  of  the  Storm 

95 

Illustrations 

PAGE 

"  No,  No,"  Said  the  Woman,  "  I  ca'nt 
Go  WITH  YOU  NOW  .         .     Frontispiece 

After  a  Time  she  Fell  down  on  her 
EInees.  She  Pressed  them  against 
HER  Face 25 

She  Laid  her  Hand  upon  the  Knob  of 
THE  Church  Door  ....      45 

"  It  Is  he,"  Whispered  the  Priest; 
"his  Sorrow  Was  Greater  than 
mine" 59 

Absolvo  te  .         .         .         .         .81 

The  Cry  for  Bread     ....      91 


^be  Bab^ 


"a   little  child  shall  lead  THEM" 


f 

ZTbe  K5ab^ 

THE  heavy  perfume  of  rare  blossoms,  the 
wild  strains  of  mad  music,  the  patter 
of  flying  feet,  the  murmur  of  speech, 
the  ring  of  laughter,  filled  the  great  hall. 
Now  and  again  a  pair  of  dancers,  peculiarly 
graceful  and  particularly  daring,  held  the 
center  of  the  floor  for  a  moment  while  the 
room  rang  with  applause. 

Into  alcoves,  screened  and  flower-decked, 
couples  wandered.  In  the  dancing-space 
hands  were  clasped,  bosoms  rose  and  fell, 
hearts  throbbed,  pulses  beat,  and  moving 
bodies  kept  time  to  rhythmic  sound. 

Suddenly  the  music  stopped,  the  conversa- 
tion ceased,  the  laughter  died  away.     Almost, 
as  it  were,  poised  in  the  air,  the  dancers  stood 
3 


4  Hnb  ^bu0  1be  dame 

amazed.  One  looked  to  another  in  surprise. 
Something  stole  throughout  the  room  which 
was  neither  music,  nor  lights,  nor  fragrance, 
but  which  was  life — a  presence ! 

' '  Do  you  see  that  child  ? "  asked  the  wildest 
of  the  dancers  of  her  escort.  "There,"  she 
pointed.     "He  looks  like  a  very  Httle  boy." 

*'I  see  nothing,"  said  the  man,  who  still 
held  her  in  the  clasp  of  his  arm. 

"He  is  strangely  dressed,  although  I  see  him 
indistinctly,  vaguely, "  whispered  the  woman. 
"He  wears  a  long  white  robe  and  there  is  a 
kind  of  light  about  his  face.  See,  he  is  look- 
ing at  us. " 

"I  see  nothing,"  repeated  the  man  in  low 
tones.  "The  heat,  the  light,  the  music,  have 
disturbed  you;  let  me  get  you " 

"I  want  nothing,"  interposed  the  woman, 
waving  the  man  aside  and  drawing  away  from 
his  arm.     "Don't  you  see  him,  there?" 

She  made  a  step  toward  the  center  of  the 


Zl)c  Bab)?  5 

room.  She  stopped,  put  her  hand  to  her 
head. 

"Why,  he  is  gone, "  she  exclaimed. 

"Good,"  said  the  man,  while  at  that  in- 
stant the  room  suddenly  rang  with  cries: 
"Go  on  with  the  music,  the  dance  is  not  half 
over."  He  extended  his  arm  to  the  woman 
again.     "Our  dance  is  not  finished." 

"Yes,  it  is, "  she  said  as  the  flying  feet  once 
more  twinkled  across  the  polished  floor,  as 
everybody  took  a  long  breath  and  a  new  start 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  pause. 

"It  is  over  for  me.    What  I  saw!" 

"What  did  you  see?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  going  back  home 
to  my  child.    Good-night." 

Yes,  the  music  had  stopped  suddenly. 
The  man  in  the  farthest  alcove  turned  to 
his  companion.  They  were  hidden  by  a 
group  of  palms. 


6  Ent)  Zl)\xe  Ibe  Came 

"I  wonder  why?"  queried  the  woman. 
She  was  deathly  pale.  Her  eyes  were  dark 
with  fear,  yet  alight  with  passionate  deter- 
mination. 

"When  it  begins,"  said  the  man  tenderly, 
"we  will  slip  away.  My  car  is  outside. 
Ever3rthing  is  ready. 

"That  is  my  husband  over  there, "  said  the 
woman. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "he  won't  trouble 
you  any  more. " 

"That  woman  with  him  is  leaving  him," 
she  said.  "I  wonder  why."  She  turned 
suddenly  with  a  great  start.  "There  is 
somebody  here, "  she  whispered,  staring  into 
the  back  of  the  alcove. 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  man,  throwing  a 
glance  aroimd  the  recess.  "There's  nobody 
here  but  you  and  I.  We  are  alone  together, 
as  we  shall  be  hereafter,  when  we  have  taken 
the  step. " 


ZTbe  16abi2  7 

"But  that  child,"  whispered  the  woman, 
"with  his  strange  vesture  and  his  wonderful 
face.    His  eyes  look  at  me  so. " 

"There  is  no  child  there,  my  dear,"  urged 
the  man;  "you  are  overwrought,  excited, 
nervous.    The  music  starts.     Let  us  go." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  woman, 
but  as  he  came  nearer  she  shrank  back  with 
Hct  own  hand  on  her  heart. 

"Oh,"  she  said  faintly,  "he's  gone." 

"Of  coiurse  he's  gone,"  he  answered  sooth- 
ingly. "Now  is  oxtr  time  to  get  away.  Let 
me " 

"No,  no,"  said  the  woman.  "I  can't  go 
with  you  now.    It  wouldn't  be  right. " 

"But  you  knew  that  before,"  pleaded  the 
man.     ' '  B  esides ' ' 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  do  it.  He  was  there! 
His  eyes  spoke — I — don't  touch  me,"  she 
said ; "  I'm  going  back  to  my  husband.  Don't 
follow." 


ff 

Zbe  Cbllt) 


SUFFER  THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN  TO  COME  UNTO  ME" 


10 


Cbe  Cbllb 

THE  employees  had  all  gone  home,  carry- 
ing with  them  Christmas  checks  and 
hearty  greetings  from  the  great  man 
whose  beck  and  nod  they  followed.  He  sat 
in  his  private  office  absolutely  alone.  He  had 
some  serious  matters  to  consider  and  did  not 
want  any  interruptions.  His  balance-sheet 
for  the  year  had  been  made  up  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  firm  before  Christmas  in- 
stead of  on  New  Year's  Day.  He  examined 
it  again.  It  showed  tremendous  profit. 
The  mills  were  turning  out  quantities  of 
material,  the  demand  for  which  was  greater 
and  the  cost  of  production  less  than  ever 
before. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  man  to  himself,  "it 


12         Hnb  Zhm  Ibe  Came 

was  a  master-stroke  to  displace  the  men  with 
children  in  the  mills.  They  have  reduced  the 
cost  by  foiir  fifths.  War  has  made  the 
prices  go  up.  This  is  not  wealth,  it  is  riches 
beyond  calculation. " 

He  picked  up  a  letter,  read  it  over.  It  was 
a  proposal  from  the  superintendent  to  clear 
more  land,  to  build  more  buildings,  to  install 
more  machines,  to  employ  more  children  and 
increase  the  profits  greatly. 

"  I'll  do  it, "  said  the  man.  "We  can  crush 
opposition  absolutely.  I'll  control  the  mar- 
kets of  the  world.  I'U  build  a  fortune  upon 
this  foimdation  so  great  that  no  one  can  com- 
prehend it." 

He  stopped,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  Hfted 
his  eyes  up  toward  the  ceiling  of  the  room  and 
saw  beyond  it  the  kingdoms  of  this  world 
and  the  means  unlimited  to  make  him  lord 
and  master.  He  gave  no  thought  to  the 
foimdations,  only  to  the  structure  erected  by 


his  fancy.  How  long  he  indulged  in  dreams 
he  scarcely  realized,  but  presently  he  put 
his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  and 
started  to  rise,  saying, 

"I'll  telegraph  the  superintendent  to  go 
ahead." 

He  had  scarcely  formulated  the  words 
when  right  in  front  of  him,  seated  on  his 
desk,  he  saw  a  young  lad  regarding  him  in- 
tently. He  stopped,  petrified,  in  the  position 
he  had  assumed. 

*  *  How  did  you  get  in  ?  What  are  you  doing 
here?"  he  asked.  There  was  no  answer. 
"Come,"  said  the  man,  shrinking  back.  "I 
can't  imagine  how  you  got  in  here.  If  my 
people  had  not  all  gone  I  should  hold  them  to 
strict  account.     As  it  is,  you " 

The  room  was  suddenly  filled  with  people. 
They  came  crowding  through  the  walls  from 
every  side  and  pressed  close  to  him.  Such 
people  he  had  never  seen:  wan,  worn,  stunted. 


14         Hnb  ZbixQ  Ibe  Came 

pinched,  starved,  joyless.  They  were  all 
children,  meagerly  clothed,  badly  nourished, 
ill  developed.  They  were  quite  silent.  They 
did  not  cry.  They  did  not  protest.  They  did 
not  argue.  They  did  not  plead.  They 
did  not  laugh.  They  just  looked  at  him. 
They  made  no  sound  of  any  sort.  He  had 
children  of  his  own  and  he  had  known  many 
children.  He  had  never  known  so  many 
gathered  together  without  a  smile  or  a 
laugh. 

His  eye  wandered  around  the  room.  They 
were  very  close  to  him  and  yet  they  did  not 
touch  him.  He  turned  to  the  desk  where 
the  lad  had  sat,  but  he  was  no  longer  there 
and  yet  he  well  remembered  his  face.  He 
knew  exactly  how  he  looked.  He  turned  to 
the  nearest  child  and  in  some  strange  way, 
although  the  poor,  wretched  face  had  not 
changed,  his  look  suggested  the  lad  who  had 
been  his  first  visitor.     He  turned  to  another 


z\)c  cbm  15 

and  another.  They  all  looked  back  at  him 
in  the  same  way  with  the  same  eyes. 

He  threw  his  head  up  again  and  saw  the 
castle  of  success  of  which  he  had  dreamed.  He 
looked  down  again.  This  was  the  foundation. 
Slowly  his  hand  went  to  the  desk.  The  little 
crowding  figures  drew  back  to  give  him  free- 
dom of  movement  as  he  stretched  his  hand 
out  for  a  telegraph-blank.  He  drew  it  to 
him.     He  seized  a  pen  and  wrote  rapidly : 

"  Build  no  more  mills,  take  the  children  out 
of  those  already  in  operation,  put  men  in 
their  places.  We  will  be  content  with  less 
profit  in  the  future." 

He  read  over  the  telegram.  The  telephone 
was  close  at  hand.  He  called  up  the  tele- 
graph-office, dictated  it  and  directed  it  to  be 
sent  immediately.  He  had  been  so  engrossed 
in  this  task  that  he  had  noticed  nothing  else. 
Now  he  looked  up.  The  room  was  still  filled 
with  children,  but  they  were  all  laughing. 


i6         anb  JL\)\X8  Ibe  Came 

It  was  a  soundless  laugh,  and  yet  he  heard  it. 
And  then  the  room  was  empty  save  for  the 
child  he  had  seen  first  and  vaguely.  He  had 
just  time  to  catch  a  smile  from  his  lips  and 
then  he,  too,  was  gone  as  silently  and  as 
strangely  as  he  had  appeared. 

Was  it  a  dream?  No,  there  was  the  tele- 
gram in  his  hand!  Had  he  sent  it?  Again 
he  called  up  the  office  on  the  telephone. 

"Did  you  get  a  message  from  me  just  a 
minute  ago?" 

"Yes,  do  you  want  to  recall  it?" 

The  man  thought  a  second. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly — was  it  to  himself 
or  to  his  vanished  visitors? — "let  it  go. 
Merry  Christmas." 


mi 
Zl)c  fvlcrib 


17 


"INASMUCH  AS  YE   HAVE   DONE  IT  UNTO  ONE  OF  THE  LEAST 
OF  THESE,    MY   BRETHREN" 


i8 


fff 

^be  jfrlen^ 

Is  the  story  of  the  Christ  Child  true, 
Mommy?"  quivered  one  Uttle,  thin 
voice. 

"Yes,  they  told  us  it  was  over  at  the  mis- 
sion Sunday-school,"  said  the  littlest  child. 

"I  don't  beUeve  it,"  answered  the  mother. 
"God  ain't  never  done  much  for  me." 

"It's  Christmas  eve,  ain't  it?"  asked  the 
boy,  climbing  up  on  the  thin  knees  of  the 
threadbare  woman  and  nestling  his  thin 
face  against  a  thinner  breast  which  the  rags 
scarcely  covered  decently. 

"Yes,  it's  Christmas  eve." 

"And  that's  the  day  He  came,  ain't  it?'* 

urged  the  oldest  girl. 

"They  say  so." 

19 


20         anb  JLhm  Ibe  Came 

"Don't  you  believe  it,  Mommy?" 

"I  used  to  believe  it  when  I  was  a  girl.  I 
believed  it  before  your  father  died,  but 
now " 

"Don't  you  believe  it  now?"  repeated  the 
first  child. 

'  *  How  can  I  believe  it  ?  You're  old  enough 
to  understand.  That's  the  last  scuttle  of 
coal  we  got.  We  ate  the  last  bit  of  bread 
for  supper  to-night. " 

"They  say, "  put  in  the  little  boy,  "that  if 
you  hang  up  your  stockings,  Santa  Claus'll 
fill  'em,  'cause  of  the  Christ  Child. " 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  Sonny,"  said  the 
mother  desperately. 

"I'm  going  to  hang  up  mine  and  see, "  said 
the  littlest  girl. 

"He's  got  too  many  other  children  to  look 
after, "  said  the  woman,  "to  care  for  the  likes 
of  us,  I'm  afraid,  and " 

"But  my  Sunday-school  teacher  said  He 


Zbc  jfrlcnt)  21 

came  to  poor  people  special.  He  was  awful 
poor  Himself.  Why,  He  was  bom  in  a  stable. 
That's  awful  poor,  ain't  it?"  asked  the  boy. 

"When  I  was  a  girl, "  answered  the  mother, 
"I  lived  on  a  farm  and  we  had  a  stable  there 
that  was  a  palace  to  this  hole  we  live  in  now. 
No,  you'd  better  not  hang  up  your  stockings, 
none  of  you. " 

"And  you  don't  believe  in  Him,  Mommy? " 

"No.  What  would  be  the  use  if  you  hung 
*em  up  and  didn't  find  anything  in  'em  in 
the  morning?" 

"It'd  be  awful,  but  I  believe  in  Him, "  said 
the  littlest  girl.  "I  don't  think  God  has 
forgot  us,  really.     I'm  going  to  try. " 

"I  tell  you  'tain't  no  use. " 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is." 

"I'm  sure  it  ain't.  But  have  it  your  own 
way, "  said  the  woman.  "If  someone  would 
fill  your  stockings  with  milk  and  bread 
and " 


22         Hnb  Zbne  t)e  Came 

"I  want  a  turkey,"  said  the  oldest  girl. 

"And  cranberry  sauce,"  added  the  boy. 

"I  want  a  doll-baby  in  mine,"  said  the 
littlest  girl. 

The  mother  hid  her  face  and  groaned  aloud. 

"You  ain't  sick,  are  you,  Mommy?" 

"I  guess  so.  Come,  you'd  better  say  your 
prayers  and  go  to  bed.  We  don't  have  to 
keep  the  fire  going  so  hard  when  you're 
all  covered  up." 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  three  little 
youngsters  to  divest  themselves  of  the  rags 
of  clothing  they  wore.  They  slept  in  what 
passed  for  their  underclothes,  so  there  was  no 
donning  of  white  gowns  for  the  night. 

"Here  are  our  stockings.  Mommy,"  said 
the  oldest,  handing  three  ragged,  almost  foot- 
less, black  stockings  to  the  woman. 

"It's  no  use,  I  tell  you.     I  can't  do  it. " 

"It  won't  do  any  harm,  Mommy,"  urged 
the  girl. 


"Do  you  believe  in  it,  too?"  asked  the 
mother,  and  the  girl  shook  her  head.  "You 
won't  be  disappointed  in  the  morning  if 
there's  nothing  in  'em?" 

"No,  I  suppose  it  will  be  because  Santa 
Claus  was  too  busy. " 

With  nervous  fingers  the  woman  hung  the 
three  stockings  near  the  window.  She  was 
hungry,  she  was  cold,  she  was  broken,  she 
was  a  mother.  She  could  scarcely  keep  from 
crying. 

"Maybe  you'll  be  glad  you  did  it,"  said 
the  httlest  girl  drowsily. 

"Ain't  you  comin*  to  bed,  too,  Mommy?" 
asked  the  oldest,  beneath  the  covers  over  the 
mattress  on  the  floor. 

"In  a  little  while." 

"And  you  won't  forget  to  say  your 
prayers?" 

"I  ain't  said  'em  for  months,  ever  since 
your  father  was  killed  and  we  got  so  poor. " 


24         Hnb  ^bu0  Ibe  Came 

"But  you'll  say  'em  to-night  'cause  it's 
Christmas  eve?" 

"Yes,  to-night,"  said  the  mother;  "now 
you  go  to  sleep. " 

"Are  you  waitin'  for  him  to  come.  Mom- 
my?" asked  the  Httlest  girl,  who  was  very 
sleepy. 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother. 

Presently,  as  she  sat  in  the  dark,  having 
turned  out  the  light,  the  deep  breathing  of 
the  children  told  her  they  were  asleep.  She 
rose  quietly,  stepped  to  the  window,  and  stood 
looking  at  the  three  shapeless,  tattered  stock- 
ings. She  was  high  up  in  the  tenement  and 
the  moonlight  came  softly  over  the  house 
roofs  of  the  city  into  the  bare,  cold,  cheerless 
room.  She  stared  at  the  stockings  and  tears 
streamed  down  her  wasted  cheeks.  She  had 
hung  .them  low  at  the  suggestion  of  the  littlest 
girl  so  the  children  could  easily  get  at  them 
in  the  morning. 


She   pressed    them    against   her    face. 


Zbc  jfrlenb  27 

After  a  time  she  fell  down  on  her  knees. 
She  pressed  them  against  her  face.  She  did 
not  say  anything.  She  could  scarcely  think 
anything.  She  just  knelt  there  until  some- 
thing gently  drew  her  head  around.  She 
dropped  the  stockings.  She  put  her  right 
hand  on  the  window-ledge  to  steady  herself 
and  looked  backward. 

No  sound  save  the  breathing  of  the  children 
and  her  own  stifled  sobs  had  broken  the 
silence;  the  door  was  shut,  but  a  man  was 
there,  a  man  of  strange  vesture  seen  dimly  in 
the  moon's  radiance,  yet  there  was  a  kind 
of  light  about  his  face.  She  could  see  his 
features.  They  were  those  of  a  man  in 
middle  years.  They  were  lined  with  care. 
He  had  seen  life  on  its  seamy  side.  The 
woman  felt  that  he  had  known  poverty  and 
loneliness.     She  stared  up  at  him. 

"I  didn't  believe,"  she  whispered;  "it 
cannot  be.     I  thought  we  were  forgotten. " 


28         Hnt)  ZMe  Ibe  Came 

The  man  slowly  raised  his  hand.  The 
moonlight  struck  fair  upon  it.  She  saw  that 
it  was  calloused,  the  hand  of  a  man  who  toiled. 
It  was  extended  over  her  head.  There  was 
no  bodily  touch,  but  her  head  bent  low  down 
until  she  rested  it  upon  her  hands  upon  the 
floor.  When  she  looked  up,  the  room  was 
empty.  There  was  no  sound  save  the  breath- 
ing of  the  children  and  the  throb  of  her  own 
heart  which  beat  wildly  in  the  fearful  hollow 
of  her  ear. 

She  heard  a  sound  of  strange  footsteps  out- 
side the  door.  There  was  a  crackle  as  of 
paper,  the  soft  sound  of  things  laid  upon  the 
floor,  a  gentle  rapping  on  the  panels,  a  light 
laugh,  a  rustle  of  draperies,  footsteps  moving 
away.  As  in  a  dream  she  got  to  her  feet,  she 
knew  not  how.     She  opened  the  door. 

The  hall  was  dimly  illuminated.  Her  feet 
struck  a  little  heap  of  joy-bringing  parcels. 
She  leaned  back  against  the  door-jamb,  her 


ZTbe  ifrienb  29 

hand  to  her  heart,  trembling.  What  could  it 
mean? 

A  tiny  voice  broke  the  silence.  It  was  the 
littlest  girl  turning  over  in  her  sleep,  mur- 
muring incoherently  and  then  clearly : 

"If  you  only  believe,  that's  enough;  if 
you  only  believe. " 


31 


IS  NOT  THIS  THE  CARPENTER  T  " 


32 


w 

Zbc  Morkman 

IN  the  mean  squalid  room  back  of  the  saloon 
half  a  score  of  men  were  assembled. 
They  were  all  young  in  years,  in  other 
things  not  youthful.  Some  of  them  loimged 
against  the  wall.  Some  sat  at  tables.  All 
were  drinking.  The  air  was  foul  with  smoke 
and  reeked  with  the  odor  of  vile  liquor. 

"We've  got  two  jobs  on  hand  to-night,'* 
said  the  leader  of  the  gang.  "There's  a 
crib  to  be  cracked  an'  a  guy  to  be  croaked. 
Red,  you  an'  Gypsie  an'  the  Gunney  will 
crack  the  crib.  It's  dead  easy.  Only  an  old 
man  an'  his  wife.  The  servants  are  out 
except  one  an'  he's  fixed.  I'll  give  you  the 
layout  presently.  The  other  job's  harder. 
Kid,  I'll  put  you  in  charge,  an*  as  it's  got  to 

3  33 


34         Hnt)  ^bu0  Ibe  Came 

be  done  early  to-night  I'll  give  you  the  orders 
now.  He'll  be  at  The  Montmorency  at  ten 
o'clock.  Someone  will  call  him  out  to  the 
street." 

"Who?" 

"Never  mind  who.  You'll  be  there  in  the 
car." 

"Whose  car?" 

"Never  mind  whose.  Why're  you  askin* 
so  many  questions?  It'll  take  you  an*  the 
four  to  The  Montmorency  at  ten  o'clock. 
When  he  comes  out  every  one  of  you  let  go, 
the  whole  bunch,  understand.  If  they  don't 
find  five  bullets  in  him  there'll  be  trouble 
to-morrow." 

"What  do  we  get  out  of  it?" 

"A  hundred  apiece  fer  you  an'  a  hundred 
an'  fifty  fer  me  fer  engineerin'  the  job, 
Christmas  money!    You  get  me?" 

"Of  course.  How'll  we  know  who  we've 
got  to  shoot?" 


Zbc  Morkman  35 

"I'll  be  there  myself  on  the  sidewalk.  I'll 
point  him  out  to  you." 

"The  police?" 

"They're  fixed." 

"Easy  enough, "  said  the  Kid,  the  youngest 
of  the  gang. 

"Well,  you  guys,"  said  the  leader  pointing 
out  four  of  the  men,  "will  go  with  the  Kid. 
The  car'U  be  at  the  door  in  half  an  hour. " 

"Now,  gimme  my  orders,"  said  Red. 

The  gang  leader  scribbled  something  on  a 
bit  of  paper. 

"You  go  to  that  number  with  these  two 
guys  between  midnight  an'  two  in  the  mom- 
in'.  You'll  find  a  back  winder  open.  Here's 
the  combination  of  the  safe.  The  silver'll 
be  in  that." 

"Jewels?" 

"In  a  wall  cabinet  upstairs.  It'll  be  un- 
locked." 

"An'  if  they  make  any  noise?" 


36         Hub  Zb\X3  Ibe  Came 

"Croak  'em,  of  course.  But  don't  make 
no  noise  doin*  it.  Better  use  a  blackjack. 
We're  not  sure  about  the  cop  on  that  beat." 

"I  understand." 

"Well,  git  your  gats  and  make  ready. 
Before  we  go,  the  drinks'll  be  on  me.  Fill  up, 
men,"  he  added,  first  pouring  himself  a  liberal 
glassful,  "an'  here's  to  bringin'  it  off  easy." 

With  deep  relish  the  toast  was  drunk  by  all 
save  Red  and  the  Kid.  Red  set  his  glass 
down  on  the  table.  The  Kid  dropped  his 
to  the  floor. 

"There's  somebody  else  in  the  room," 
whispered  Red. 

"Yes,  yonder  by  the  door,"  said  the  Kid. 
**You  c'n  jest  see  him." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  the  gang  leader. 
"There's  nobody  here  but  us." 

"He's  wearin*  strange  clothes,"  said  Red. 

"He  looks  like  a  carpenter  by  his  kit  o* 
tools,"  said  the  Kid. 


Zbc  Morkman  37 

"Here,  pull  yourselves  together,  men,** 
said  the  gang  leader;  "you're  dippy,  there's 
nobody  here.     Where's  your  nerve?" 

But  Red  made  no  move  to  obey.  He 
thrust  his  glass  from  him  and  rose  and  leaned 
over  the  table  staring.  The  other  men 
shrank  back  glancing  at  the  two  figures,  for 
the  Kid  had  also  dashed  the  proffered  glass 
aside. 

"I  see  him,"  he  said,  "he's  lookin'  at  me, 
he's  lookin'  through  me." 

In  his  excitement  he  took  a  step  forward 
and  the  table  went  over  with  a  crash.  The 
two  men  passed  their  hands  over  their  eyes 
in  bewilderment. 

"Why,  there  ain't  nobody  here,"  said  the 
Kid. 

"  But  I  seen  him  I  tell  you, "  persisted  Red. 

"And  so  did  I." 

"Well,  he's  gone,  whoever  he  was,  accord- 
in'   to  your  own  showin',"   said  the  gang 


38         Hnt)  ZhixB  Ibe  Came 

leader  contemptuously.  "Now  brace  up. 
Take  your  liquor.     Get  a  move  on  youse." 

"Not  me,"  exclaimed  Red  suddenly. 

"Nor  me,"  said  the  Kid. 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"I  won't  do  it." 

"Neither  will  I." 

Both  men  moved  to  the  door.  The  gang 
leader  sprang  to  intercept  them,  his  arms 
upraised,  his  hands  clenched. 

"Lemme  pass,"  said  Red. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  give  us  away?" 

"No,"  answered  Red.  "But  you  don't 
rob  no  house,  an'  you  don't  kill  no  man 
to-night." 

"You  all  know  what  that  means,"  cried 
the  leader.     "Here  you  men  grab  'em." 

But  the  rest  of  the  gang  himg  back. 

"Mebbe  they  did  see  somethin', "  said 
one. 

"You  cowardly  dogs,"  cried  the  leader. 


Zbc  TKHorftman  39 

"We  won't  mention  no  names  to  nobody, " 
said  the  Kid,  "but  you  can't  pull  them  jobs 
off.     We'll  jest  warn  'em. " 

"You  swore  you'd  be  true  to  the  gang,  that 
you'd  obey  orders  an'  follow  directions. " 

"We  won't  give  ye  away  but  I'm  goin'  to 
quit  the  gang  an'  go  to  work, "  said  Red. 

"Me  too,"  said  the  Kid. 

"Work!  Hell!"  exclaimed  the  gang  leader, 
but  they  shoved  him  out  of  the  way  and  went 
out  of  the  door. 


ID 

^be  Comforter 


41 


'NErTHER   DO  I  CONDEMN  THEE" 


42 


Zbc  Comforter 

SHE  was  a  daughter  of  shame.  Even 
inexperience  could  see  that  as  she 
wandered  up  and  down  the  streets  of 
the  town,  desperate,  impelled  to  go  on  by  a 
force  too  strong  for  her  to  resist.  She  trod 
the  pavement,  yet  loathed  the  necessity  and 
hated  herself  for  her  compliance.  She  had 
only  to  look  forward  to  the  jail  or  the  hos- 
pital ;  yet  there  was  always  the  river.  Had 
it  come  to  that?  Was  there  nothing  else? 
She  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  stone  walk  as 
hard  as  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  found 
herself  opposite  a  brightly  lighted  building. 
She  leaned  against  the  door.  From  within 
came  the  sound  of  music,  the  strains  of  a 
hymn,  words  of  prayer.     The  light  streamed 

43 


44         Hub  ZbUQ  Ibe  (Tame 

about  her  face  from  the  stained  window. 
This  was  a  Church  of  God.  Stained  window, 
stained  woman,  confronting  each  other  in  the 
night ! 

There  was  no  God  for  her.  There  might 
have  been  once,  but  she  had  committed  the 
tmpardonable  sin  against  society  and  society 
was  God.  There  was  no  place  for  her  any- 
where, save  the  jail  or  the  hospital  or  the 
river.  That  last  was  the  best.  The  street 
was  deserted.  She  had  thought  it  not  a  good 
place  in  which  to  ply  her  trade!  She  made  a 
step  forward  and  stopped. 

In  her  pathway  stood  a  figure  seen 
dimly  in  the  darkness.  It  stood  in  the 
shadow  beyond  the  broad  light  from  the 
painted  window.  There  was  something 
strangely  familiar  about  it.  She  glanced  up 
at  that  window.  Had  the  figure  there 
stepped  down  and  embodied  itself  vaguely  on 
the  walk  before  her? 


She  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
knob  of  the  church  door. 


Zbc  Comforter  47 

What  was  this  strange  figure?  Who  was 
he?  As  she  stared,  the  outHne  drew  nearer. 
A  man  vested  in  long  white  draperies  con- 
fronted her.  He  was  bareheaded  and  ap- 
peared insensible  to  the  cold  in  which  she 
shivered.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  some- 
thing folded  it  back  upon  her  breast.  She 
opened  her  lips  and  something  sealed  them. 

As  she  watched,  the  figure  slowly  moved. 
It  bent  forward  and  went  slowly  down  on  its 
knees  on  the  sidewalk.  The  white  hand 
began  to  trace  strange,  mysterious,  unknown, 
incomprehensible  characters  upon  the  pave- 
ment. She  watched  with  bated  breath, 
some  memory  of  another  sinful  woman  of 
whom  she  had  heard  in  childhood  coming 
back  to  her  prostrate  mind.  Yes,  and  there 
behind  the  figure  stood  others,  hateful  and 
hating,  very  violent,  passionate  men.  She 
stared  from  the  handwriting  in  the  dust  to 
these   others   and    they   faded    away.     She 


48         Hnb  Zhm  Ibe  Came 

was  alone  with  the  kneeling  figure  and,  as 
she  looked,  it  too  vanished  in  the  chill  air. 

She  bent  over  the  pavement.  There  was 
nothing  there,  yet  she  had  received  a  message. 
After  a  last  glance  she  turned  away,  new 
courage,  new  life,  new  hope  in  her  heart. 

She  mounted  the  steps,  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  knob  of  the  church  door,  she  turned 
it  and  went  bravely  within. 


m 

Zbc  Burden  Bearer 


49 


HE.    BEARING   HIS  CROSS.  WENT  FORTH  •» 


50 


m 

Zhc  Bur^en  Bearer 

THE  sound  of  the  running  feet  of  the 
man  smashing  through  the  burned 
stubble  ceased  abruptly.  He  stopped 
at  the  threshold  of  the  door.  No  friendly 
bark  of  dog  welcomed  him.  From  the 
bam  there  came  no  gentle  lowing  of  cattle, 
no  homely  clucking  of  chickens.  Like  the 
house  the  byre  too  had  been  ruined,  gutted 
with  flame. 

The  soldier  whose  march  had  brought 
him  back  to  his  own  village  that  night 
stood  in  the  entrance  of  what  had  been 
his  home  and  stared  at  the  smoking  walls, 
the  charred  roof  gaping  to  the  sky,  the  empty 
casements.  The  enemy  had  been  there. 
He  whispered  his  young  wife's  name,  he 
51 


52         Hnb  ^bU6  Ibe  Came 

called  softly  to  the  baby,  as  if  they  might  be 
sleeping  somewhere  within  the  devastated 
house.  He  listened  for  a  reply  but  none 
came.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been  thank- 
ful even  for  a  groan  or  a  cry  of  agony,  any- 
thing that  meant  life.  But  all  was  silence 
within,  without. 

Yonder  on  the  winding  road  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  he  could  hear  the  trampling  of  men, 
the  groaning  of  wheels,  the  clank  of  iron 
cavalrymen,  the  jingling  of  bits  and  swords, 
sharp  words  of  command.  The  army  was 
advancing.  He  could  delay  no  longer.  He 
must  get  back  to  his  place  in  the  ranks. 
Summoning  his  courage  he  crossed  the  thres- 
hold and  stepped  into  the  vacant  emptiness  of 
the  house.  Everything  was  gone  but  the  four 
stone  walls.  There  were  unrecognizable  heaps 
of  ashes  here  and  there.  He  bent  over  them 
fearfully  in  the  twilight  wondering  whether 
the  shapeless,  formless  masses  were 


Cbe  36urben  Bearer         53 

Something  caught  his  eye.  The  one  thing 
intact  apparently.  He  stooped  over  it.  It 
was  the  baby's  shoe — white,  it  had  been 
originally.  He  remembered  it.  Now  it  was 
stained  with  blood.  That  was  all  that  was 
left — a  little  baby's  shoe,  blood  spotted.  He 
pressed  it  to  his  heart  and  groaned  aloud. 
A  spasm  of  mortal  anguish  shook  his  frame. 
He  Hfted  his  clenched  hand  toward  the  sky 
overshadowing  the  roofless  walls. 

Now  he  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  was 
not  alone.  There  was  someone  else  in  the 
room.  He  saw  vaguely,  indistinctly,  a  figure 
strangely  clad,  staggering  on  with  bended 
back  as  if  under  some  crushing  load.  He 
stared  in  the  twilight  striving  to  concentrate 
his  faculties.  The  figure  passed  by.  On  its 
back  was  a  shadowy  something — beams  of 
wood  roughly  crossed,  he  decided.  It  raised 
its  head  and  looked  at  him.  The  face  was 
somehow  lighter  than  the  rest. 


54         Hnb  ^bu0  Ibe  dame 

The  man's  arm  fell.  The  room  was  empty 
after  all.  He  stared  at  the  little  shoe.  Was 
it  somewhere  well  with  the  child,  with  its 
mother?  Unbuttoning  his  tunic  he  thrust 
the  little  shoe  within,  over  his  heart.  He 
straightened  up.  Away  off  on  the  road  a 
bugle  call  rang  out  above  the  tumult.  He 
turned  away,  seized  his  rifle,  shouldered  it, 
stepped  rapidly  toward  his  regiment  and  his 
duty. 


IDff 

Zhc  ZTborn  Crowned 


55 


"THE    SOLDIERS   PLATTED  A  CROWN    OF  THORNS   AND    PUT 
IT  ON   HIS  HEAD  " 


56 


mi 

Zhe  Zbovn  Crowne^ 

IT  was  ghastly  cold  in  the  ruined  church. 
It  had  been  warm  enough  there  during 
the  day,  but  the  fire  that  had  gutted  it 
had  died  like  the  young  acolyte,  like  the  aged 
sacristan,  the  venerable  mother,  the  sweet 
young  novice,  the  women  who  had  sought 
shelter  there  in  vain.  Neither  the  dignity 
of  age  nor  the  sweetness  of  maidenhood  nor 
the  innocence  of  youth  nor  the  sanctity  of 
profession  had  availed. 

The  old  priest  was  glad  they  were  dead. 
Life  after  what  they  had  suffered  had  been 
unthinkable.  He  thanked  God  for  that 
oblivion.  He  wished  that  he,  too,  might  die 
in  that  violated  shrine  where  he  had  peace- 
fully ministered  for  so  long  a  time.  They 
57 


58         Hnt)  ^bu0  Ibe  Came 

had  taken  the  flock,  the  shepherd  must  follow. 
He  should  have  led. 

He  had  fought,  oh,  he  had  played  the  man 
for  the  honor  of  the  poor  lambs  committed  to 
him.  Had  he  done  right?  Should  he  not 
have  stood  dumb  before  the  shearers?  They 
had  shot  him  and  stabbed  him  and  beaten 
him  into  insensibility.  The  last  thing  he  had 
heard  was  the  shriek  of  one  woman,  the  pite- 
ous appeal  of  another.  They  thought  he  was 
dead,  but  he  was  living.  Why  had  he  not 
died? 

How  could  God  be  so  cruel?  This 
was  war.  This  ruined  sanctuary,  these 
broken  men  and  women  who  had  sought 
only  to  serve  Him!  Was  there  a  God  in- 
deed? Faith,  hope,  what  were  they?  As- 
surance, trust?  Words,  words!  Ah,  how 
he  suffered. 

It  was  bitter  cold  and  yet  he  burned  with 
fever.     The    tremors   of   pain    so   exquisite 


"/f  is  He,"   whispered    the   priest. 
"  His  sorrow  was  greater  than  mine.^* 


^be  ^born  Crowneb         6i 

that  they  might  almost  be  counted  pleasure 
shot  through  his  ruined,  torn,  broken  figure, 
yet  he  recked  Httle  of  these.  It  was  the 
shame,  the  shame.  He  had  been  zealous  for 
the  Lord  of  Hosts.  There  was  no  God. 
Men  were  not  made  in  any  image  save  that  of 
hell.  He  could  not  move  hand  or  foot,  but  he 
could  see.  He  could  speak.  He  could  curse 
God  and  die. 

As  his  lips  framed  that  anathema  he  saw 
vaguely  the  figure  of  a  stranger;  a  slender, 
wasted  body,  dark  stains  upon  it  in  the 
moonlight.  It  wore  some  kind  of  curious 
headgear.  The  man  stared.  The  light 
was  reflected  from  the  sharp  points  of  long 
thorns.  A  cloth  was  fastened  about  the 
loins.  The  figure  stood  very  straight  in  the 
desecrated  Holy  of  Holies.  A  light  seemed  to 
come  from  its  face.  Its  eyes  looked  at  the 
man  with  great  pity.  Slowly  the  figure 
raised  its  arms.     Slowly  the  arms  extended 


63         Hub  Zbm  Ibe  Came 

themselves;  there  were  blood-stains  in  the 
palms  of  the  hands. 

"It  is  He,"  whispered  the  priest.  "His 
sorrow  was  greater  than  mine.  Lord,  I 
beHeve. " 

He  knew  nothing  more  save  that  a  great 
peace  had  suddenly  stolen  around  him. 


tDirirf 
Zhc  Broken  Ibeartet) 


^ 


ONE  OF  THE  SOLDIERS  WITH  A  SPEAR  PIERCED  HIS  SIDE  " 


64 


tDfff 

tTbe  Broken  Ibearteb 

'LL  get  that  man  if  I  die  for  it, "  said  the 
soldier.  "He's  found  the  one  position 
in  the  lines  from  which  he  can  fire  into 
our  trenches." 

"It's  easier  said  than  done,"  remarked  his 
comrade,  "and  the  minute  you  cross  that 
spot  you  come  within  his  range.  He'll  put 
a  bullet  through  you  before  you  can  level  a 
rifle  or  press  a  trigger. " 

"I'll  not  go  that  way,"  said  the  man. 

"What  is  your  plan?" 

"You  know  that  salient  yonder  on  the 
right?    I'm  going  out  of  the  trench  there." 

"When?" 

"Now.    I'll  wrap  myself  in  white.    That 

little  run  of  coppice  will  cover  me  until  I  get 
5  65 


66         Bnt>  ZMe  Ibe  Came 

within  a  few  feet  of  him,  then  I'll  have  to 
chance  it." 

"Wish  I  could  help  you,  old  man.  I'd  like 
to  get  that  man.  He's  shot  six  of  the  best 
fellows  in  the  company  and " 

"You  can  help  me  by  making  a  diversion  to 
attract  his  attention.  Keep  him  looking  at 
that  alley. " 

A  few  moments  later  the  soldier  shrouded 
in  white  crept  out  of  the  trench  and  noise- 
lessly rolled  down  the  slope  to  the  bushes. 
The  snow  was  deep  on  the  ground.  There 
was  no  touch  of  color  about  the  soldier.  He 
even  thrust  his  rifle  under  the  linen  in  which 
he  had  wrapped  himself.  Outside  the  shelter 
of  the  trenches  the  wind  blew  with  terrific 
force.  It  was  terribly  cold.  He  had  dis- 
carded his  overcoat  for  freedom  of  motion. 
Only  his  indomitable  resolution  kept  him 
alive.  He  locked  his  jaws  together  to  keep 
his  teeth  from  chattering.     The  ice-covered 


Zbc  Broken  Ibearteb         67 

snow  under  his  bare  hands  almost  blistered 
the  flesh  as  he  crept  along. 

He  intended  to  use  the  bayonet.  If  he  shot 
the  man  he  was  stalking  alarm  would  be 
given  and  he  would  be  riddled  with  bullets 
before  he  got  back.  He  was  willing  to  give 
a  life  for  a  life  if  it  were  necessary,  but  he 
was  reluctant  to  do  so  if  it  could  be  avoided. 
Cold  steel  would  be  better.  Cold  steel !  He 
smiled  grimly.  It  would  need  some  hot  blood 
to  take  the  chill  off  the  bayonet  at  the  end  of 
his  rifle. 

Slowly,  almost  holding  his  breath  lest  he 
be  noticed,  he  edged  his  way  along.  He  had 
plenty  of  time  for  thought.  This  was  not  so 
easy  a  job  as  he  had  fancied,  not  the  physical 
part,  but  the  mental  strain.  He  could  shoot 
a  man  who  was  shooting  at  him,  he  could 
batter  a  man  over  the  head  who  was  trying 
to  do  the  same  to  him,  but  this  stalking  a  man 
in  cold  blood  was  different  somehow.    Cold 


68         Hnb  ^bu0  Ibe  Came 

blood!  He  laughed  soundlessly  at  his  recur- 
rent fancy.  He  went  a  little  more  slowly. 
Finally  he  stopped  to  consider. 

From  the  nook  ahead  of  him  in  which  the 
enemy  had  ensconced  himself  came  a  sudden 
rapid  rattle  of  rifle-shots.  His  friend  back 
in  the  trench  was  doing  his  part.  The  man 
was  awake — on  the  alert.  It  would  be  some- 
thing of  a  fair  fight,  he  thought  with  some 
little  satisfaction.  He  surveyed  the  inter- 
vening space  beyond  the  coppice.  The  men 
in  the  trenches  on  both  sides  wotild  be  awake, 
too.  It  would  take  him  a  few  seconds  to 
cross  that  space  and  get  at  the  man  he  was 
stalking.  Coiild  they  shoot  him  before  that? 
There  was  some  shelter  where  the  enemy  was. 
If  the  stalker  could  get  to  that  spot  he  would 
be  protected  for  a  moment  from  fire  from  the 
enemy's  trench. 

It  would  take  him  a  second  or  two  to 
cross  that  space.     In  a  second  or  two  what 


Zl)C  Broken  Ibearteb         69 

might  happen?  Well,  he  would  have  to 
risk  that.  At  the  very  end  of  the  coppice 
he  gathered  himself  together  and  rose  slowly 
to  a  crouching  position.  Another  rain  of 
shots  came  from  the  nook;  the  man's  rifle 
would  be  empty,  he  must  give  him  no  chance 
to  reload.  Now  it  would  be  a  fair  fight  with 
the  bayonet. 

He  threw  aside  the  white  draperies  that 
impeded  his  legs  and  in  half  a  dozen  bounds 
the  two  men  were  face  to  face. 

No  shot  had  been  fired.  Yes,  the  magazine 
of  the  man's  rifle  was  empty.  He  heard  the 
crunch  of  his  enemy's  feet  on  the  snow.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  his  bayoneted  rifle  extended. 
The  two  barrels  struck  with  terrific  force. 
The  men  swayed,  drew  back  for  another 
thrust,  and  they  were  suddenly  aware  of  a 
mist-Hke  figure  between  them,  a  figure  draped 
in  white,  lightly,  diaphanously. 

They  stood  arrested,  guns  drawn  back,  and 


70         Hnb  Zb\X3  Ibe  Came 

stared.  The  figure  slowly  extended  its  arm, 
carrying  drapery  with  it.  A  man's  breast  was 
bared.  There,  over  the  heart,  was  a  great 
gaping  wound,  fresh,  as  if  a  broad,  heavy 
blade  had  pierced  it. 

There  was  a  clatter  on  the  ice  as  a  gun 
dropped  and  another  clatter  as  a  similar 
weapon  struck  the  stone  opposite.  The  two 
men  bent  forward,  their  hands  outstretched. 
They  took  a  step  as  if  to  touch  the  figure  and 
there  was  nothing  there!  The  hands  met. 
They  clasped  warmly  in  the  cold  against 
each  other. 

"My  God,  what  was  that?"  said  the 
stalker. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  other. 

"A  pierced  side!" 

"Was  it " 

"No.    It  couldn't  be." 

"Well,  we  worship  the  same  God  and ** 

Ah,  they  were  seen.     There  were  quick 


^be  Kronen  Ibearteb         71 

words  of  command  from  the  trenches,  a 
staccato  of  rifle-shots,  and  two  bodies  lay 
side  by  side,  hands  still  clasped,  while  the 
snow  reddened  and  reddened  beneath  them. 
And  it  was  Christmas  eve. 


If 

ZTbe  jforglver  of  Slna 


73 


I  SAY  UNTO  THEE  UNTIL  SEVENTY  TIMES  SEVEN  " 


74 


If 

Zhc  JovQivcv  of  Sin0 

•*    A     PRIEST,  for  Christ's  sake,  a  priest," 

J~Y     i^o^^^^  ^^6  man. 

A  white-faced  sister  of  charity 
upon  whom  had  developed  the  appalling  task 
of  caring  for  the  long  rows  of  wounded  at  the 
dressing  station  before  they  were  entrained 
and  sent  south  to  the  hospital,  hovered  over 
the  stretcher. 

"My  poor  man,"  she  whispered,  "there 
is  no  priest  here." 

"I  can't  die  without  confession — abso- 
lution," was  the  answer.  "A  priest,  get 
me  a  priest." 

Next   to   and    almost   touching    the   cot 
on  which  the  speaker  writhed  in  his  death 
agony  lay  another  man  apparently  in  a  pro- 
75 


76         Hnb  Zhixe  Ibe  Came 

found  stupor.  He  wore  the  uniform  of  a 
private  soldier  and  his  eyes  were  bandaged. 
His  face  had  been  torn  to  pieces  by  shrapnel, 
fragments  of  which  had  bHnded  him.  At 
that  instant  he  came  out  of  that  stupor. 
Perhaps  the  famiHar  words  recalled  him  to 
himself.  He  moved  his  hand  slightly.  The 
sister  saw  his  lips  tremble.     She  bent  low. 

"Who  seeks  confession,  absolution?"  he 
whispered.     "I  am  a  priest." 

"You  are  wounded,  dying,  father." 

"How  can  I  die  better  than  shriving  a 
fellow  sinner?" 

That  was  true.  The  heroic  woman  turned 
to  the  man  who  still  kept  up  his  monotonous 
appeal. 

"The  man  next  to  you,"  she  said,  "dying 
like  you,  is  a  priest." 

"Father,"  cried  the  first  man  with  sudden 
strength.     "I  must  confess  before  I  die." 

"Lift  me  up, "  said  the  priest. 


Zhc  fovQlvcv  of  Q\m        77 

The  woman  slipped  her  arm  about  his 
shoulders  and  raised  him. 

"The  sister?"  began  the  other. 

"I  shall  be  bhnd  and  deaf,"  said  the 
woman. 

"Speak  on,"  whispered  the  priest. 

"I  have  been  a  great  sinner — there  isn't 
time  to  confess  all." 

"What  is  heaviest  upon  your  soul,  my 
son?" 

"A  woman's  fate." 

"Ah." 

"There  were  two  who  loved  her — a  dozen 
years  ago — she  preferred  me — I  took  her 
away." 

"Did  you  marry  her ? " 

"No.  And  then  we  quarreled — I  de- 
serted her.  When  I  came  to  seek  her  she 
was  gone — young,  innocent,  penniless,  alone 
in  Paris — I  have  sought  her  and  never  found 
her." 


78         Hnt)  ZMq  Ibe  Came 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  priest 
suddenly  with  a  fierce  note  in  his  quivering 
voice. 

"Father,  can  I  be  forgiven?"  answered 
the  man  giving  his  name. 

The  dying  soldier  stared  anxiously  up  at 
his  bandaged  comrade,  at  the  nun  who  had 
hid  her  face  behind  the  shoulder  of  the 
priest.  He  noticed  that  her  body  was 
shaking. 

"And  the  woman's  name?" 

The  priest  suddenly  sat  upright.  He  shook 
off  the  sister's  restraining  hand.  He  tore 
the  bandage  from  his  own  face.  He  bent 
over  the  dying  man  as  he  murmured  the 
woman's  name. 

"Wretch, "  he  cried,  "look  at  me." 

His  face  was  gashed  and  cut  and  torn 
but  something  remained  by  which  the  other 
recognized  him. 

"You!"  he  cried  shrinking  away. 


^be  jforolver  of  Sine        79 

"I  loved  her,  too,"  said  the  priest,  "I 
would  have  married  her.  When  she  went 
away  with  you  Holy  Church  received  me." 

"Mercy,"  cried  the  soldier  uplifting  his 
hand. 

"What  mercy  did  you  show  her?" 

The  priest  could  not  see  but  he  could 
feel.     His  hand  seized  the  other's  throat. 

"My  father,"  interposed  the  nun.  "He 
has  confessed.     God  will  forgive,  even  as  I." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  blind  priest, 
fearfully. 

"The  woman!"  cried  the  dying  man  shak- 
ing off  the  other's  hand  and  lifting  himself  up. 

The  sight  came  back  to  the  priest  on  the 
instant.  The  fierce  agony  that  filled  his 
bUnded  eyes  seemed  to  give  place  to  the 
gentle  touch  of  a  hand  upon  them.  He 
seemed  to  hear  a  mighty  word — Ephphatha — 
that  meant  "be  opened."  Light  flooded  his 
soul.    Looking  up  he  was  aware  of  two  figures. 


8o         Hnb  ZbnQ  Ibe  Came 

One  of  the  twain,  an  old  man,  gray  bearded, 
was  appealing  to  the  other,  clad  in  white 
raiment  and  youthful.  And  the  priest  sud- 
denly recalled  an  old  and  well-known  story  of 
a  fellow  servant  who  would  not  have  mercy. 

"Father,  forgive — "  whispered  the  man 
before  him. 

As  the  voice  of  the  dying  sinner  died  away 
in  the  silence  all  was  dark  again.  The  priest 
saw  no  more,  but  the  horrible  pain  in  his 
eyes  did  not  return.  Over  his  torn  features 
came  a  look  of  calm.  He  Hfted  his  arm. 
His  wavering  hand  cut  the  air  in  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

*'Absolvo  te,**  he  murmured  as  he  pitched 
forward  dead  upon  the  breast  of  the  dying. 

And  the  woman  tenderly  covered  them  over. 


Absolvo  te. 


^be  6lver  of  Xifc 


83 


HE   THAT   EATETH   OF  THIS   BREAD   SHALL    LIVE   FOREVER" 


84 


f 

Zbc  (Blver  of  Xlfe 

OF  the  five  specters  in  the  boat  three 
were  without  life.  Those  whose 
faint  breathing  indicated  that  they 
had  not  yet  reached  the  point  of  death  were 
too  weak  and  indifferent  to  rid  the  boat  of  the 
bodies  of  the  others.  Ever  since  the  home- 
ward-bound whaler  had  struck  a  derelict  in  a 
gale  of  wind  north  of  the  Falklands  and  foun- 
dered, this  little  boat,  surviving  the  shipwreck 
as  by  a  miracle,  had  drifted  on. 

For  three  weeks  in  vain  they  had  scanned 
the  horizon  for  a  sail.  Their  scanty  supply 
of  bread  and  water  had  been  consumed  in 
ten  days.  Thereafter  they  had  nothing. 
The  baby  had  died  first,  next  a  man  whose 
arm  had  been  broken  by  a  falling  spar  in  the 
85 


86         Hn^  Zb\x&  Ibe  Came 

disaster,  and  then  the  ship's  cabin  boy.  The 
survivors  were  a  man  and  a  woman.  They 
were  both  far  gone.  The  woman  was  plainly 
dying.  The  man  kept  himself  up  by  sheer 
exercise  of  will. 

Their  drifting  had  been  northward  toward 
warmer  seas.  It  was  winter  in  their  home  land 
and,  though  they  knew  it  not,  Christmas  day. 
There  the  tropic  sun  blazed  overhead  from 
an  absolutely  cloudless  sky.  There  was  no 
vestige  of  breeze  to  stir  the  canvas  of  the 
solitary  sail  or  ripple  the  glassy  surface  of 
the  smoothed  out  ocean.  The  boat  lay  still. 
Not  even  the  iron  man  at  the  helm  could  have 
lifted  an  oar.  It  had  been  dead  calm  for 
days.  Speech  there  was  none  except  in  the 
gravest  necessity.  To  talk  connectedly  was 
impossible. 

After  scanning  the  horizon  for  the  thou- 
sandth time  the  man's  burning  eyes  sought 
those  of  the  woman  at  his  feet.     He  was 


Zbc  6iver  of  Xlfe  87 

astonished  to  find  them  open.  Her  mouth 
was  working,  her  parched  lips  strove  to  form 
words.  He  dropped  the  tiller  which  his  hand 
had  grasped  mechanically,  and  which  was 
useless  since  there  was  no  way  on  the  boat, 
and  bent  his  head  lower.  Some  sudden  re- 
crudescence of  strength  which  the  dying 
sometimes  receive  came  to  the  woman. 

"Death,"  she  whispered.  "Glad."  She 
turned  her  head  slightly  and  saw  the  form 
of  the  child.  "The  Baby— and— I— to- 
gether. " 

The  man  nodded.  Tenderly  he  laid  his 
hot  wasted  hand  on  the  woman's  fevered 
brow. 

"A  priest,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  un- 
comprehendingly. 

She  was  evidently  going  fast  yet  she  knew 
what  she  wanted  although  she  was  not  con- 
scious that  she  craved  the  impossible.  It 
•would  appear  that  she  had    been  a  good 


88         HnD  Zl)\xe  Ibe  Came 

church  woman.  The  man  could  only  stare. 
He  was  no  priest,  only  a  rough  sailor. 

"A  priest,"  said  the  woman  more  clearly. 
"I  want — a  priest — the  sacrament."  By 
some  nervous  convulsive  effort  she  lifted  her 
arms  up  toward  him  beseeching,  appealing. 
There  was  another  kind  of  agony  in  her  voice 
that  had  not  been  present  when  she  had 
moaned  for  water  in  the  days  before. 

"The  sacrament,"  she  insisted,  "I  die." 

The  man  looked  away.  Hard  by  the  boat 
where  there  had  been  but  a  waste  of  sea  rose 
a  green  island.  A  stretch  of  pleasant  mea- 
dow met  his  eyes.  It  was  so  close  to  him  that 
if  he  had  leaned  over  the  gunwale  of  the  boat 
he  could  have  laid  his  hand  on  the  lush  grass. 
Dumbly  he  wondered  where  it  had  been 
before,  how  he  had  come  upon  it  so  suddenly, 
why  he  had  not  seen  it  hours  ago. 

In  front  of  him  were  himdreds  of  people, 
men,  women,  and  children,  plain  people  in 


^be  (Blvcr  of  Xlfe  89 

strange  simple  garb,  the  like  of  which  he  had 
never  seen.  In  front  of  these  people  and 
with  their  backs  toward  him  stood  a  little 
group  of  men,  in  the  center  a  figure  in  white 
garments.  A  lad  offered  something  in  a 
basket. 

The  man  watched,  amazed,  awe-stricken, 
yet  with  a  strange  peace  in  his  soul.  He 
made  no  movement  to  gain  the  shore.  He 
only  looked  and  looked.  The  white-robed 
figure  bent  over  the  basket.  He  lifted  from 
it  a  crude  rough  loaf  of  bread.  He  raised  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  his  lips  moved.  He  broke 
the  bread  and  gave  it. 

As  the  sailor  watched  the  island  disap- 
peared as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  The  scene 
changed.  Now  he  looked  into  a  low  room, 
dimly  lighted  with  strange  lamps.  Through 
an  open  window  he  saw  the  stars.  The  few 
men  that  had  stood  about  the  man  in  the 
grassy  meadow  were  alone  with  him  in  that 

6 


90         Hnb  Zb\X6  Ibe  Came 

upper  chamber  reclining  about  a  table.  The 
man  lifted  from  the  board  a  cup  of  silver. 
He  blessed  it  and  gave  it.  The  fragrance  of 
wine  came  to  the  watcher. 
[  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again  and  be- 
fore him  spread  the  smooth  unbroken  surface 
of  the  monotonous  sea.  The  woman's  voice 
smote  his  ear  again,  higher,  shriller,  with  more 
painful  entreaty. 

"A  priest — for  the  love  of  God — the  sacra- 
ment, "  she  whispered. 

The  man  tore  open  the  last  canvas  bread- 
bag.  It  was  tough  material  but  it  yielded 
to  his  insistence.  In  the  comer  there  was  a 
single  tiny  crumb  they  had  overlooked.  He 
lifted  it  gently  with  his  great  hand.  He  held 
it  up  in  the  air  a  moment  striving  to  think. 
He  was  an  English  sailor  and  in  his  boyhood 
had  been  a  chorister  in  a  great  Cathedral. 
The  mighty  words  came  back  to  him.  He 
bent  over  the  woman. 


The  cry  for  bread. 


^be  6lver  of  Xlfe  93 

"  Bread,"  he  whispered.     " The  body " 


He  shattered  the  water  breaker  with  his 
fist.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  moisture  on 
the  inside  of  the  staves  of  the  cask.  He  drew 
his  finger  across  them  and  touched  it  to  the 
woman's  lips. 

"Water," he saidhoarsely.  "The blood " 

The  terror,  the  yearning,  disappeared  from 
the  woman's  eyes.  She  looked  at  the  man 
sanely,  gratefiilly. 

"God  bless — "  she  faltered  and  then  her 
lips  stiffened. 

Some  tag  of  quaint  old  Scriptiire  that  had 
impressed  him  when  he  first  heard  it  because 
of  its  very  strangeness,  but  of  which  he  had 
never  thought  in  all  the  years  of  his  rough 
life  since  boyhood,  came  into  the  man's  mind 
now.  He  lifted  his  head  as  if  to  see  again 
that  figure. 

"A  priest  forever,"  he  gasped,  "after  the 
order  of  Melchis " 


94         Hnt)  ^bu6  Ibe  Came 

He  did  not  finish  the  word.  The  woman 
was  dead.  He  knew  now  for  what  he  had 
been  kept  alive.  His  task  had  been  per- 
formed. He  bowed  his  head  in  his  hands 
and  entered  into  life  eternal  with  the  others. 

Presently  a  little  cloud  flecked  the  sky. 
Out  of  the  south  the  wind  blew  softly.  The 
smooth  sea  rippled  blue  and  white  in  the 
gentle  breeze.  The  little  boat,  cradling  its 
dead,  rocked  gently  as  it  drifted  on. 


ft 

Zhc  Stiller  of  the  Storm 


95 


"BE  OF  GOOD  CHEER;    IT  IS  I;    BE   NOT  AFRAID" 


96 


Z\)C  Stiller  of  tbe  Storm 

"TT'S  Christmas  eve  at  home,"  murmured 
JL  the  young  lad  after  he  had  said  his 
prayers  and  tumbled  into  his  narrow 
berth  on  the  great  ship.  "I  suppose  they're 
trimming  the  Christmas  tree  now  and  hanging 
up  the  stockings.    I  wish  I  were  there." 

He  was  very  young  to  serve  his  country, 
but  not  too  young  according  to  the  standards 
of  mankind  to  be  a  midshipman  on  the  great 
steel  monster  keeping  the  leaden  deep.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  away  from 
home  on  Christmas  day,  too.  The  young- 
sters had  all  laughed  and  joked  about  it 
in  the  steerage  mess.  They  had  promised 
themselves  some  kind  of  a  celebration  in  the 
morning,  but  in  his  own  cot  with  no  one  to 
7  97 


98         Hn^  Zbns  1bc  Came 

see,  a  few  tears  which  he  fondly  deemed  un- 
manly would  come.  He  had  the  midnight 
watch  and  he  knew  that  he  must  get  some 
sleep,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  drifted  off  to  dream  of  home  and 
his  mother. 

Athwart  that  dream  came  a  sudden,  fright- 
ful, heart-stilling  roar  of  destruction;  a 
hideous  crash  followed,  a  terrible  rending, 
breaking,  smashing,  concatenation  of  noises, 
succeeded  by  frightful  detonations,  as  through 
the  gaping  hole  torn  in  the  great  battleship 
by  the  deadly  torpedo,  the  water  rushed  upon 
the  heated  boilers,  the  explosion  of  which  in 
turn  ignited  the  magazines.  By  that  deadly 
underwater  thrust  of  the  enemy  the  battle- 
ship was  reduced  in  a  few  moments  to  a  dis- 
jointed, disorganized,  sinking  mass  of  shape- 
less, formless,  spHntered  steel. 

As  the  explosions  ceased,  from  every 
point  rose  shrieks  and  groans  and  cries  of 


^be  Stiller  of  tbe  Storm     99 

men  in  the  death-agony  hurled  into  eternity 
and  torn  Hke  the  steel.  And  then  the  boy 
heard  the  surviving  officers  coolly,  resolutely 
calHng  the  men  to  their  stations. 

He  had  been  thrown  from  his  berth  by  the 
violence  of  the  explosion.  His  face  was  cut 
and  bleeding  where  he  had  struck  a  near-by 
stanchion.  His  left  arm  hung  useless.  He 
had  lain  dazed  on  the  deck  for  a  few  moments 
until  he  heard  the  orders  of  his  lieutenant. 
He  was  one  of  the  signal  midshipmen  sta- 
tioned on  the  signal  bridge.  Whatever  hap- 
pened that  was  the  place  to  which  to  go;  he 
still  had  a  duty  to  perform. 

Picking  himself  up  as  best  he  could,  he 
hurried  to  report  to  the  lieutenant.  With 
such  means  as  were  available  signals  were 
made.  Calls  for  help?  Oh,  never!  Warn- 
ings that  the  enemy's  submarines  were  in 
the  near  vicinity  and  that  other  ships  should 
keep  away. 


100        Enb  ^bu0  Ibe  Came 

The  captain  was  on  the  half  wrecked  bridge 
above.  The  boy  noticed  how  quiet  he  was, 
yet  his  voice  rang  over  the  tumult. 

"Steady,  men,  steady.  Keep  your  sta- 
tions.    Stand  by.     Be  ready. " 

The  old  quartermaster  whose  business  it 
was  to  tell  the  hours  saluted  the  captain. 

"Eight  bells,  sir,"  he  said,  "midnight. 
Christmas  day,"  he  added. 

"Strike  them,"  said  the  captain. 

And,  as  clear  as  ever,  the  four  couplets  rang 
out  over  the  chaos  and  the  disaster. 

"Christmas  day,"  the  boy  murmured. 

"She's  going,  men,"  said  the  captain,  as 
the  cadences  died  away.  "Save  yourselves. 
Abandon  the  ship. " 

"Christmas  morning,"  said  the  boy.  "I 
wonder  what  they're  doing  at  home. " 

"Overboard  with  you,  youngster,"  said 
the  signal  lieutenant;  "I  wish  I  had  a  life- 
preserver  for  you,  but " 


Zhc  Stiller  of  tbe  Storm    loi 

"Merry  Christmas,  sir,"  said  the  lad  sud- 
denly. 

"Good  God!"  said  the  man.  "Merry 
Christmas !    They  will  think  of  us  at  home. " 

What  was  left  of  the  ship  gave  a  mighty 
reel. 

"Quick  or  she'll  suck  you  down,"  the 
officer  roared,  as  he  fairly  flung  the  boy 
into  the  water, — and  how  he  hurt  that  broken 
arm!  "You  can  swim.  Strike  out.  Good- 
by." 

The  boy  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cap- 
tain standing  on  the  bridge  as  the  wreck  went 
down  and  then  the  wild  waters  closed  over  his 
head.  It  was  frightfully  cold.  A  hard  gale 
was  blowing.  The  waves  ran  terribly  high. 
His  left  arm  was  helpless.  His  head  ached 
fiercely.  What  was  the  use?  Still  the  boy 
struck  out  bravely  with  his  free  hand.  The 
instinct  of  life !  It  was  too  dark  to  see.  The 
sky  was  covered  with  drifting  clouds.     Only 


102        Hub  ZMq  Ibe  Came 

here  and  there  a  Httle  rift  of  moonlight  came 
through. 

"Christmas  morning,"  he  sobbed  out 
as  the  waves  rolled  him  over.  "Oh,  my 
God!" 

He  felt  himself  going  down.  All  at  once 
the  waters  seemed  to  grow  still.  It  was 
suddenly  calm.  He  was  no  longer  cold. 
He  threw  his  head  up  for  one  last  look  at  the 
sky  and  life  and  then  he  hung,  as  it  were, 
suspended  in  some  strange  way.  He  saw  a 
figure  walking  across  the  smooth  of  the  seas 
as  it  had  been  solid  ground.  The  figure  drew 
nearer,  the  wind  seemed  to  have  died  away, 
but  the  draperies  that  shrouded  it  swung 
gently  as  they  would  while  a  man  walked 
along.  The  face  he  saw  dimly,  vaguely,  but 
there  was  Hght  in  it  somehow.  It  came 
slowly  nearer. 

"Christmas  morning,"  whispered  the  boy. 

The  hand  of  the  figure  reached  down.     It 


Cbe  Stiller  of  tbe  Storm    103 

caught  the  boy's  right  arm.  He  was  lifted 
up. 

"Home  and  Christmas  morning,"  whis- 
pered the  boy,  closing  his  eyes. 

The  moonlight  broke  through  a  cloud  and 
fell  upon  him.  A  wave  rolled  over  him  and 
the  sea  was  empty  as  before.   . 


fbc  tbat  batb  ei^ea  to  sec,  let  b!m  aecl 


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